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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26995711">Making the Most</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCrazyWriter321/pseuds/MissCrazyWriter321'>MissCrazyWriter321</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haven (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon past child death mentioned, Developing Relationship, F/M, Feelings, Flirting, Friends to Loves, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Season 3 to Season 4 premiere, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:02:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,152</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26995711</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCrazyWriter321/pseuds/MissCrazyWriter321</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that actions speak louder than words. In Jordan’s experience, that’s normally true. People can say one thing and mean another, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. Not just Nathan-although he’s certainly her first thought on this subject-but most people. </p>
<p>Still, when you can’t touch someone, your options for actions are limited. And when all you have is words, sometimes you just have to make the most of them. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dwight Hendrickson/Jordan McKee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Making the Most</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Because I always felt like there was Something implied at the beginning of Season 4, and I couldn't put my finger on it. Please enjoy my speculation about how that relationship could have developed.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They say that actions speak louder than words. In Jordan’s experience, that’s normally true. People can say one thing and mean another, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. Not just Nathan-although he’s certainly her first thought on this subject-but most people. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, when you can’t touch someone, your options for actions are limited. And when all you have is words, sometimes you just have to make the most of them. </span>
</p>
<ol>

</ol>
<p>
  <span>“You look nice today.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a simple comment, innocuous in its own right, but it gives her pause. Dwight is, to say the least, not in the habit of commenting on her appearance. (On anyone’s appearance, as far as she knows. Not since his wife.) Besides which, there’s nothing unusual about what she’s wearing today; no extra makeup, no fancy dresses… Not even a new jacket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>So, why is he complimenting her? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she says finally, searching his eyes for answers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has the gall to seem </span>
  <em>
    <span>amused </span>
  </em>
  <span>by this, of all things, but says nothing, just nods. She opens her mouth, fully prepared to tell him off for acting weird, when the door swings open. The woman who steps inside is Guard; Becca, maybe? Or Gracie? She always avoids Jordan at the meetings, and judging by the way she pales, she had no idea she’d find her here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I get you anything?” Jordan asks, because she can be </span>
  <em>
    <span>polite, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she can be </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she can be </span>
  <em>
    <span>human-</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, thank you,” the woman manages, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste to reach the door. “I think I’m-I think I came to the wrong-I’m sorry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bell gives a cheerful ring as the door slams shut, and Jordan closes her eyes. It isn’t like she doesn’t understand; if she didn’t have her Trouble, she wouldn’t want to be around anyone who did. But still, it’s not like she’s going to leap over the counter and attack anyone. Besides, clearly she can function without shocking people, or she wouldn’t still have a job. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She forces herself to look up, and finds Dwight watching her, expression far too open. Gentle. He’s always gentle around her, but never fearful. Not unless she wants him to be. (And she tries not to do that to him, because he’s one of the few friends she has, but her abilities have become both shield and sword, and sometimes she doesn’t know how to put them down.) </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gentle. Like she’s made of porcelain. It’s preferable, she thinks, to being treated like an explosive. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cheerful lady,” he comments, almost neutral. “Guess she never got the memo.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What memo?” In spite of herself, her lips twitch. Judging by the way his eyes soften even more, he definitely notices. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That you have the best coffee in town, of course.” He says it matter-of-factly, but it still catches her off guard. It’s not suspicion, exactly; she trusts him, as much as she trusts anyone these days. But still…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re really buttering me up today, aren’t you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugs, expression casual, but she knows she isn’t imagining the light pink tint creeping up his cheeks. (Or maybe she is. Maybe she’s so desperate and lonely that she’s inventing affection that isn’t there.) “Just telling the truth.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His next cup of coffee is on the house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>ii.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She can’t even imagine what he’s been through. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Never in her life has she considered herself mother material, even before her Trouble activated, but now, she cannot stop picturing it: Her, with a little child tucked into her arms, a child of her own. If she were lucky enough to have that, and something </span>
  <em>
    <span>happened </span>
  </em>
  <span>to that child, especially if it was because of a Trouble that came from her? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It would devastate her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She knows today is the day; every year, she keeps careful track, imagining that she will be brave enough to do something for once. So far, she has chickened out every time, but this year, she is determined. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The problem is what, exactly, she should do. She’s not going to dump meaningless words like ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ on him, after all. If she were a normal person, she might just wrap her arms around him for awhile, but that’s decidedly off the table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A card is too cheap, flowers seem like taking the easy way out, and asking if he wants to talk about it just sounds cruel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the end, she doesn’t have to decide. Almost an hour after the lunch rush, he ambles in, shoulders sagging. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” he murmurs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey.” She swallows, watching him settle into his seat, mind racing. “I know,” she blurts, before she can stop herself. “What today is. I-I know.” She isn’t altogether sure why she tells him this; it just seems important that he understand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His lips flicker in a ghost of a smile, before he nods. “Just… Didn’t want to be alone.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn’t a question, but it is, and she already knows the answer. Nathan will be texting her soon, wondering where she is, but she has lost track of the number of times he has bailed on her without warning. Just this once, she’s doing something important, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m here.” She isn’t sure how much of a reassurance that is, but he relaxes a little, some of the tension melting from his frame. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you.” His gaze drops to the counter for a moment. “Talk to me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, she almost says. “About what?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anything.” He pauses, then adds a caveat. “Anything but her. A movie, or a weird customer, or-Nathan, if you want.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t sound entirely thrilled about that last option, and she instantly knows she won’t take it. Instead, she rolls the day over in her mind, searching for something entertaining to share. Half a dozen kid stories occur to her, but she quickly dismisses them, settling instead on a particularly weird one. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mrs. Hammond came in,” she begins, and he looks up, gaze fixed intently on her. Soaking in every word. It throws her, briefly, but she steadies herself and continues. “She brought her dog with her. Completely against the rules, but when I told her that, she insisted that it wasn’t actually a dog. That it was her friend, who had been turned into a dog by a Trouble.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His expression softens, and his eyes flicker; it isn’t quite a smile, but it’s something. “Sounds pawful,” he murmurs, and it takes her several seconds to register the pun. When she does, she groans. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anyway, I told her that I’d be a little more convinced if I hadn’t seen that dog around before. But she still stuck to her story. Said that her friend’s Trouble is randomly turning into a dog. Honestly, I was just about ready to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever </span>
  </em>
  <span>and let them stay, when her ‘friend’ decided to </span>
  <em>
    <span>decorate </span>
  </em>
  <span>my floor.” She rolls her eyes, feigning annoyance. (And it wasn’t feigned at the time, but now, all she can muster is gratitude toward Mrs. Hammond and her messy little dog. Thanks to them, Dwight looks a little less miserable.) “So, I kicked them both out,” she finishes, and he breaks into a small but genuine grin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good for you. Can’t have our town going to the dogs.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once again, she groans, and he beams. Unexpectedly, though, his face falls. Immediately, he shakes his head, trying to get rid of whatever that thought is, but she can’t help herself; she asks. “What is it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He swallows. “Lizzy used to call those ‘Dad Jokes,’” he mutters, dropping his gaze back to the counter. “Guess I’m just not sure I should still be making them.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s such a simple thing, but it’s enough to steal her breath. She reaches forward on instinct, barely catching herself in time, and rests her hands on the counter in front of him. “Look, I don’t know anything about being a parent,” she admits, “but I don’t think-” Should she even say this? Is she already out of line? Probably, but he’s waiting for her to finish, so there’s no going back. “I don’t think you ever really… Stop.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A shudder runs through him, and he nods, blinking quickly. His eyes are suspiciously bright, but no tears fall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And, you know…” She’s already out here. Might as well carry it out. “Maybe that’s a good way to... Honor her.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He considers this, before nodding again, eyes falling shut. “Thank you,” he manages, and in her mind, she holds him close and never lets him go. (Then again, maybe it’s best that she can’t touch him; she doubts he’d want </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> to hold him, anyway. Audrey, maybe, but not her.) </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anytime,” she promises instead. Then, because she desperately wants to bring his smile back, she takes a risk: “Pawmise.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he’s laughing through his tears, and she knows there’s nowhere in the world she’d rather be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Nathan doesn’t text her until the next day, and at that, it’s only a rushed apologies for forgetting their date. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t worry about it,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she responds, calmer than she probably should be. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“So did I.”</span>
  </em>
  <span>) </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>iii. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Valentine’s Day. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wonderful. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Though you couldn’t tell it by looking at her, Jordan used to love Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t even about having a date; she loved the candy, and the sappy rom-coms. Since her Trouble activated, she hasn’t been able to enjoy it as much, but this is something else entirely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She has someone this year, at least in theory. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nathan. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Nathan, whose Trouble makes him immune to hers. Who can touch her, but can’t feel her. Whose heart is completely and utterly lost to someone else, even if he will not admit it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has yet to even call her, much less attempt to make plans, and she isn’t exactly holding her breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except, well… She is. That’s the worst part: the fanciful voice at the back of her mind, telling her that he’s planning some grand surprise to sweep her off her feet. It’s ridiculous, and she’s far too old for fairytales, but hope is a surprisingly resilient thing at times, and it will not release its hold. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s so lost in her thoughts, she doesn’t notice the delivery man until he’s right in front of her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jordan McKee?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hands are behind his back, and she tenses, instinctively bracing for a fight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have a delivery for you.” Before she can even begin to process whether or not that’s a threat, he draws his hands back around, revealing… Flowers? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a colorful bouquet, made up mostly of yellow puffs and red tube-shaped flowers. She doesn’t recognize either of them, but they’re beautiful, and her heart warms in spite of herself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nathan didn’t forget her after all. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pretty,” Dwight observes, and Jordan jumps, clutching the bouquet a little too tightly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When did you get here?” She scowls. “And what have I told you about sneaking up on me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He holds up his hands in surrender. “Wasn’t trying to sneak,” he promises, eyes dancing. “You just didn’t hear me because you were paying attention to those.” He gestures to the flowers. “Where’d you get ‘em?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She cannot stay angry at him for very long; she has long forgotten how. “Nathan got them for me.” She smiles, tracing a petal with her finger, grateful that her Trouble doesn’t extend to plants. Those, at least, she can touch without fear of destruction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That was… Nice of him.” He says slowly, and she can’t blame him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, right? Honestly, I didn’t even think it’d cross his mind.” It’s easier than saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t think I would cross his mind. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“But I guess people can surprise you sometimes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She feels like a ridiculous schoolgirl, smiling like a sap, but she can’t help herself. She honestly can’t remember the last time she got cut flowers, and these are </span>
  <em>
    <span>beautiful. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Guess so.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something is off in his voice, and she shifts her focus to him, concern creeping in. “You okay?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods, and his expression clears, a bright smile taking over his face. “Great. I’m just… happy for you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It occurs to her, suddenly, that this must be a rough time of year for him. She never knew him when his daughter was alive, but by all accounts, he was a devoted father. Most likely, a devoted husband, as well, before all of that was taken from him. What kind of friend is she, to be revelling in her romance when he’s all alone? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She opens her mouth to say something-anything-but he beats her to it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You probably shouldn’t say anything to Nathan about the flowers. Way I hear it, he hasn’t dated a lot since his Trouble came back; he’s probably pretty self-conscious about stuff like this. Less of a big deal you make?” He shrugs. “More comfortable he’ll be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That makes sense, and she supposes he knows Nathan better than her, anyway. (Is there anyone who doesn’t?) “Okay, I won’t bring it up unless he does.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>smiles </span>
  </em>
  <span>then, warm and full. “Good.” He offers a little wave. “See you around, Jordan.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s only later that she realizes he didn’t buy anything. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<ol>

</ol>
<p>
  <span>For a long time, there is only Nathan: his voice, his words, his </span>
  <em>
    <span>touch- </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And oh, he may have saved her life in carrying her to the hospital, but she cannot stand to be touched by him right now. He traded </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything-</span>
  </em>
  <span>everyone’s freedoms-for a pretty girl who was already gone. She was </span>
  <em>
    <span>leaving, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>over, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he had to go and mess it up. Probably killed her in the process, but unfortunately, that didn’t stop the Troubles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nathan still can’t feel, which means that she still can’t touch. May never be able to touch again, in fact. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she finally hears another voice, her first thought is that she’s grateful it isn’t Nathan. Her second is that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>that voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have to let me see her.” Dwight sounds… Well, wrecked, for lack of a better word. Terrified. “You have to let me back there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nathan </span>
  </em>
  <span>has the gall to protest. “Look, she’s resting. Why don’t you just-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dwight?” She calls, and her voice is hoarse, but it’s enough. Within a few seconds, the door to her room flies open, and Dwight steps through, Nathan on his heels. Upon seeing him, she decides that her earlier assessment was correct: he is a wreck. His hair is in wild disarray, and his eyes seem to match, looking her over with startling intensity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” He asks gruffly, and she nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great, except that Crocker shot me,” she mutters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes darken, and he opens his mouth, but Nathan cuts him off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You shot me first,” he points out, and he’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but it still grates. As if he has the right to judge her, when he just doomed them all because of a few butterflies in his stomach. </span>
  <em>
    <span>(Butterflies he can’t even feel, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thinks traitorously.) </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dwight glances between them, an unreadable expression flickering across his face, before he sighs. Shakes his head, apparently deciding to deal with </span>
  <em>
    <span>this whole mess </span>
  </em>
  <span>another time. He reaches toward her, and she has to force herself not to pull away, to trust him to protect himself. There’s something unsteady in his eyes that has her half-wondering if he even remembers her Trouble at the moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As it turns out, he does; his hand lands carefully on top of the blanket that covers her hand, avoiding any hint of skin contact. But the fabric is thin, and she can feel his warmth seeping through. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re going to be okay.” It is neither a question nor a reassurance; it is a statement, a declaration, with enough ferocity behind it to break even the most determined opposition. “We’ll figure this out.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She wants to believe him. Wants to reach out from under the blanket and catch his hand between hers, holding tightly, letting his steadiness steady her. She wants to stop feeling like a monster in her own skin, and to remember what it’s like to not be afraid. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well. Reality has never cared much about what she wants. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s there to figure out?” She shrugs, feigning carelessness. “I tried to kill the Chief of Police. One of his lackies shot me instead.” The put-down is significantly less satisfying given that Crocker cannot hear it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nathan clears his throat. “About that-” He starts, and Dwight sighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not right now, Nathan. Okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Undeterred, Nathan plows on. “I quit.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of all the things Jordan could have possibly expected, that didn’t even remotely make the list. “Wait, what?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When I took the job of Chief…” He sounds impossibly tired, suddenly, but Jordan refuses to feel sorry for him. “I did it because I thought I was the best person for the job. I thought I could do what was best for Haven.” He gives a bitter chuckle. “Think it’s pretty clear that’s not true anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Huh. So maybe he isn’t completely oblivious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dwight flounders for a moment, blinking. “Nathan, this isn’t what your dad would want.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please.” Nathan rolls his eyes. “We both know the Chief’d be furious with me too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan would be more than happy to let this go, but apparently, Dwight still feels like he owes Nathan some loyalty. (Or perhaps his loyalty lies with the late Chief Wuornos; more than once, he has told Jordan that the man was like a father to him.) “Where are we going to find a new chief with this short notice? Why don’t you wait, give us time to-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Apparently, Nathan’s tired of listening. He shoves his shield into Dwight’s hand, then almost trips getting out the door. “Figure it out,” he calls over his shoulder, and disappears. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dwight turns back to Jordan, eyes wide. He looks… Lost, which is not a look she has associated with him in a long time. She instinctively hates it, wants to pull him in and hold him until he can find his way again, but she doesn’t have that luxury.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, she maneuvers the hand not pinned by his out from under the covers, tentatively reaching forward. He tracks the movement, but doesn’t flinch, and she rests the tip of her finger against the badge in his hand. They are dangerously close, but she knows he will not move, and she can be careful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It suits you,” she murmurs, and he swallows, considering her words. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jordan, I’m a cleaner, not a cop,” he objects, but it’s quiet. Thoughtful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She taps once, then draws back, unwilling to tempt fate anymore. “Same thing, isn’t it? In Haven, at least. Besides…” She catches his eyes, and he watches her, unblinking. “Things are going to get worse. Troubled people need someone we can trust. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>need someone I can trust.” The last part isn’t supposed to come out, but she can’t bring herself to regret it, even as he takes a steadying breath in response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And that’s me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They are talking about the police force. They are talking about Haven. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Always.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jordan, I don’t-” He hesitates. “I don’t know how to do this.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They are talking about being chief of police. She will not-</span>
  <em>
    <span>cannot-</span>
  </em>
  <span>allow herself to consider the alternative. If there’s one thing she has learned, it’s that hoping is the best way to get hurt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Neither did Nathan.” She shrugs. “You can figure it out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes are wide. Vulnerable. “Can we?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope so.” Then, because his face falls, she adds, clarifies, </span>
  <em>
    <span>repeats-</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I trust you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hand closes around the badge, and he nods. “Then let’s figure this out.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Later, he will say that Vince and Dave convinced him to take up the badge. It’s true enough, in its own way; they spend hours insisting that he’s the man for the job. And it’s just as well that Nathan doesn’t know about Jordan’s role in it.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>v.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have dinner with me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been two months since the Nightmare Day: When Nathan destroyed the Barn, and everything changed. Two months since she and Dwight talked about </span>
  <em>
    <span>figuring things out. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Things have been different since then, undeniably: Softer around the edges. Warmer. He texts her most days, and calls her at least once a week, ‘just checking in.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But this is more than quiet implications and secret talks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, like a date?” She arches a brow, and he nods. “Sure you want to be seen in public with me?” She asks, and it should be a joke, but it isn’t; everyone knows that she shot Nathan, after all, and there are plenty of rumors about why she isn’t locked up for it. No reason to add fuel to the fire. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t rise to the bait. “Yes. Grey Gull. Tonight, seven o’clock?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Seriously? </span>
  </em>
  <span>She wants to ask, but holds her tongue. One of the problems with living in a small town is that there might only be one place to get decent food, and it might be owned by someone who’s a jerk. On the bright side, Crocker still hasn’t appeared, so at least he won’t be the one there. Still…. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want to try this,” he adds quietly, and she caves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine. Seven o’clock. I’ll meet you there.” Because she trusts Dwight, more than anyone in the world, but she’s not about to be stranded there with only him for a ride. If something goes wrong, she wants to be able to get out, and fast. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He seems to sense how important this is to her, because he nods. “Great.” The smile he gives her is surprisingly shy. “I look forward to it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, so does she.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time she convinces herself to walk inside, she’s already ten minutes late. She half expects him to be long gone, but of course he isn’t. He already has a table, and he grins when she walks in, waving her over. He actually stands, which is a ridiculously old-fashioned gesture, and she almost calls him on it, but… Well. She could go for an old-fashioned gesture or two. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He holds out a bouquet of flowers, and she can’t help but smile, taking them carefully. They’re beautiful, and more than a little familiar, although it takes her several seconds too long to figure out why. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was you,” she gasps, taking in the red and yellow flowers. She glances up at him for confirmation, and is rewarded by a sheepish nod. “I didn’t-” </span>
  <em>
    <span>He came to the shop, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she realizes suddenly, guilt washing over her. “I didn’t know-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You weren’t supposed to,” he interrupts, then pauses. “I mean, I was going to tell you, but you were so happy that Nathan bought you flowers that I just…” He trails off with a shrug, and she remembers what he said. How he told her not to bring it up with Nathan. He was protecting her, even then.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she whispers, and she hopes he knows how much she means it. For everything, not just for the flowers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Judging by his slow nod, he might. “Always.” Then, lighter, he adds, “So, what should we order?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dinner’s perfect. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He keeps her laughing for most of the evening, in a way she didn’t know she still could. And in turn, she regales him with stories about customer service, so absurdly normal that she doesn’t know whether to scream or laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though they never touch, </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>somehow feels normal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s only at the end of the date-both lingering by their vehicles, neither one ready to leave-that it hits her all at once. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It isn’t fair. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s looking at her with such intensity, such urgency, that she has no doubt how this conversation would end if they were a normal couple. (Are they even a couple at all? She isn’t altogether sure, but she thinks so-hopes so-believes so-) But she cannot even reach out to squeeze his hand, much less press her lips to his. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s too much, and she looks away, avoiding his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He clears his throat. “I’m kissing you,” he says quietly, but steadily, and it takes her several long seconds to process the words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” She stumbles back half a step, panic filling her. Whatever reckless idea he has in his mind-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not touching you.” He holds up his hands as if to prove his point. “But right now. I’m kissing you. Running my hands through your hair.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes her several long moments to process, and when she does, she almost wants to laugh. They’re a little old for making up stories and playing pretend, but she has to admit that it’s better than the hopelessness welling up inside. “Well, then, I’m kissing you back.” She grins. “And I’m really, really enjoying it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perfect.” He looks like he might say something else, but whatever words are lingering on his tongue are lost to the beeping of his walkie. Scowling, he answers. “Hendrickson.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Chief?” Stan’s voice crackles over the radio. “We've got another Trouble.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh. Great.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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